


Might Fit, Like This

by stfustucky (iwillpaintasongforlou)



Series: Kaer Morsels [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Banter, Coitus Interruptus, First Dates, Flirting, Geralt enjoys making bread, M/M, Movie Night, Single Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Thirsty Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Thirsty Regis, Unconventional Families, background jaskel, background laiden, canon death of all Cintrans, ciri is a menace, first of all that ship tag is obnoxious I'm never writing this ship again, recovering alcoholic Regis, sugardaddy Regis, surgeon Regis, third in a series but backreading not necessary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27592142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwillpaintasongforlou/pseuds/stfustucky
Summary: Everyone at Kaer Morsels bakery thinks that Geralt is oblivious enough that he doesn't notice the way that Regis, one of their regular customers, flirts with him. That's not the case. Geralt notices, alright, and he likes it. Every time Regis walks in the door there's a little ball of warmth that appears in his belly and doesn't go away for hours afterwards. Geralt knows that Regis wants him, and he wants him right back. He just chooses to ignore it because there's no fucking way that's going to happen.(featuring Tired Dad TM Geralt, patient sugardaddy Regis, meddling brothers everywhere, and a happy ending to the bakery trilogy that was only ever supposed to be a drabble, 50k words later)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy
Series: Kaer Morsels [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974415
Comments: 84
Kudos: 417





	1. dumb but not that dumb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lutes_and_dandelions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lutes_and_dandelions/gifts).



> Title from Over Again by One Direction
> 
> _And I can lend you broken parts  
>  that might fit, like this,  
> and I will give you all my heart  
> so we can start it all over again._
> 
> Dedicated to Lutes, who babbled on about this ship forever until I caught the bug and had to write it myself! Your enthusiasm is infectious and I hope all of your rarepairs produce good crops in the coming year :)

"Are you aware that you have pink glitter on your face?"

Geralt grunts noncommittally in answer to Eskel's question. It's a difficult one; was he aware that he specifically had pink glitter, specifically on his face, at this specific moment in time? No. But was he in general usually coated in something sparkly ? Yes. He'd stopped trying to avoid it long ago. There was no getting around it with a five year-old daughter. It was better to preserve his energy for something he actually has a shot at succeeding at, like fending off conversation at 5:45 in the morning.

And fending off hands, too, apparently, because Eskel has the corner of his apron lifted and is coming for Geralt's face with it, attempting to hold him in place by the hair while Eskel scrubs at his cheek. "What the fuck are you doing?" Geralt growls, smacking at Eskel's arms in an attempt to free himself. It doesn't work-- Eskel spends half of his fucking life in the gym, just about, the stupid brute-- but the feigned knee towards his crotch sure does.

"Hey, watch it! If you break my dick you know Jaskier will come after you. And you also know how vicious he can be."

Geralt does, indeed, know that. He shudders at the thought of that tiny ball of terror putting him on his shit list. "Stop trying to spit-shine me like I'm four, then."

"There wasn't even any spit on there. Trying to wipe it off with something wet only makes it stick better, dumbass," snorts Eskel, shrugging his shoulders and returning to his work, piping macarons onto a lined cookie sheet. "I was just trying to help you out, anyways, not that I get any gratitude for that. I know your boy is going to be here any minute."

"I don't have a 'boy.'"

"You're right, that's not the right word for him. Regis is a _man."_

"First we were four, now we're fourteen," Geralt says with a roll of his eyes. "I don't care how you fucking classify him, Kel, he's still not mine."

"Only because you insist on being a stick in the mud about it. I'm telling you, he's drooling over you. Actively. With zero subtlety. He wants to do terrible and beautiful things to you. Everyone knows this but you."

That... isn't strictly accurate. Eskel and Lambert --and Jaskier and Aiden, who have inserted themselves in Kaer Morsels drama quite seamlessly since appearing in their lives-- think that Geralt is just oblivious enough that he doesn't notice the way that Regis, one of their regular customers, flirts with him. That's not the case. Geralt notices, alright, and he likes it. Every time Regis walks in the door there's a little ball of warmth that appears in his belly and doesn't go away for hours afterwards. Geralt knows that Regis wants him.

He just chooses to ignore it because there's no fucking way that's going to happen.

It's been three years now since he'd become Ciri's guardian, assuming his godfather duties after Ciri's parents had died in a car accident during her infancy and then her grandparents just two years later in a violent home invasion gone wrong. When the social worker had led Ciri to him at the police station, she was clutching a worn stuffed lion that still had a spot of her grandmother's blood on it, and from that moment on, everything in Geralt's life became about her. Taking care of a toddler, as it turns out, is not a skill everyone is born with, and it was a steep goddamn learning curve.

For a long time, he didn't have time to do anything but attend to her. There was a fear settled deep in her little chest of being abandoned, again, by the person who was supposed to take care of her. It didn't matter to Ciri that both her parents and grandparents had loved her fiercely and would never have left her if they'd had the choice; all that she knew was that they were gone, and all she had left was Geralt, and she had to hold on tight to him before he went away, too. Geralt let her cling to him, did the best that he could to stay patient every time he left the room and the world ended, and made sure to never, ever be missing when she came looking for him.

Of course, that wasn't exactly conducive to a job working as a bouncer at a nightclub. Paid leave wasn't exactly a thing there, which meant that once Geralt's boss' good graces ran out, he was out of a job and living on his already meager savings. That lasted all of three months before he was scraping the bottom of the barrel, taking handouts from Vesemir and his brothers just to keep the lights on. He didn't resent Ciri for it; he knew what a godparent's duties were when he agreed to support Pavetta and Duny in that way. He just... never expected that it would be so hard to have to accept help from everyone else all the time.

He hated it, hated feeling like he was failing to provide for himself and his new daughter this way. Which is why when Ciri began to be confident enough that Geralt wasn't going to abandon her that she was able to spend her days at Vesemir's house while the old man worked from home, he accepted Eskel's offer of a job at his bakery. It was still charity; Geralt wasn't fooled about that. But at least he was working for his money, repaying his older brother's kindness in some way. And it's not like any other job was going to let him FaceTime his kid three times in a shift just to reassure her that he was still alive and well and coming home to her as soon as he could.

The point is, Geralt has too much shit going on to be worried about dating. Or even flirting. The last time he'd tried dating, before Ciri, if one of the people that he went out with revealed that they had a kid in tow who would take up massive chunks of their time and attention, sometimes at a moment's notice, he would have made up some polite excuse to never see them again and written them off as a loss. That's just... more baggage than anyone wants to handle.

Not to mention at this point he's rusty. He can't even remember the last time he'd sucked a dick. Might as well just commit to monkhood.

"He's a customer," Geralt finally says, just to end the conversation.

Eskel, unable to let Geralt have the final word, simply remarks, "So was Jaskier, once upon a time."

With that, at least, Eskel seems content to leave him alone about the whole thing. Geralt is able to continue on with his kneading of the dough that will later be turned into freshly baked cinnamon raisin bread, free of his brother's meddling. He doesn't even mention that Geralt is working on his task at the tiny workspace at the front of the store, rather than in the back where there's more room to spread out and do the work properly. 

When the bell above the door chimes the entrance of a customer, Geralt schools himself not to look up for at least ten seconds, despite the herculean nature of the task. He knows it's Regis; no one else comes in this early, not since Jaskier successfully snagged Eskel's attention and convinced him to start spending some time outside of the bakery, and subsequently stopped having to come early in the morning just to get alone time with him. If it's early in the morning and it's Tuesday, it's Regis.

"Geralt," Regis says, the smile clear in his voice, and only then does Geralt allow himself to look up. There he is, in all of his artfully disheveled glory, looking like he just rolled out of bed and yet even still like he’s ready to conquer the world at a moment's notice.

"Good morning, Regis," he says, not able to help the gentle swooping of his stomach.

"A good morning indeed, when I come in and see you here making something delicious. My only regret is that I came too early to taste the fruits of your labors." He doesn't exactly look regretful; he's looking at Geralt with a twinkle in his eye. "I trust you're well?"

"I'm here.

"A fact that I'm quite grateful for," Regis hums. "And how is Cirilla?"

This one, at least, Geralt can answer without his usual tired chagrin. "Report card came home yesterday. A's in everything except her library special," he says with a smirk.

"Hmm. Not a fan of books?"

"Oh, she loves books. Not a fan of staying quiet for more than five minutes at a time, though." Geralt gives the wad of dough one more loving punch and steps back, wiping his hands on a towel. "Hang on a second, I've got your order ready in the back."

Geralt is not a conversationalist and never has been. Probably never will be. But with Regis, he forgets that sometimes and just... talks. The man makes it easy, never pushing when Geralt is hesitant about a topic and managing to hone in on the few things that Geralt _does_ like talking about-- mainly, bread and Ciri. It makes him easy to talk to, and Geralt doesn't even want to pluck out his eyeballs at the chatter as he rings Regis up for his purchases.

"As always, Geralt, you've made my trip to Kaer Morsels an absolute delight, and I thank you for it," Regis says as he takes the handles of the bags.

Geralt knows exactly what he's talking about. He isn't an idiot. He knows what it looks like when a man undresses you with his eyes. He swallows and plays dumb anyways, because there's no chance in hell that it would ever work out. "The bagels are that good, huh?"

"Something sure is," Regis replies with a wink, and off he goes.

The door shuts behind him with a little tinkle of the bell, and Eskel is there at his shoulder like some sort of ghostly shadow. "Just marry him already," he sighs with exasperation.

"Hey Eskel?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut the fuck up."

..................... 

Geralt really needs to stop getting dragged into situations like this.

It's not that he doesn't like Jaskier, or support him in his artistic endeavors. He's sure that this open mic poetry thing is going to be great, really. He's very dramatic, which probably makes him a great poet. Normally, Geralt would be all about the idea of supporting a friend who's rapidly approaching family member status in all of their hobbies and interests. 

Except that this is an event that's being held in a crowded bar, and Geralt hates that for so many reasons. First of all, it's crowded, and Geralt hates crowds. He’d enjoyed his work as a bouncer specifically because it allowed him to sit  _ outside _ of the crowd, where it was cool and quiet, and handle people in small doses. No one ever hung around with the bouncer for longer than it took to get their ID checked. 

Second of all, it's a bar, which means that it also contains overpriced alcohol and people who think they're going to get laid. Which, good for them, but no. His somewhat edgy aesthetic has always confused people who knew how quiet and reserved Geralt actually is, but the truth is, he just likes the way they look rather than what they suggest about him. His undercut and his piercings and his tattoos and his traditionally masculine build give people the impression that he’s cool and straight and down to party, and he doesn't have the heart to tell him how very wrong they are. As a result, every time he goes to a bar he winds up spending the whole night giving the slip to 19 year-old girls who try to chat him up.

All of which means that he'd pretty much rather be anywhere but here, in this bar, pretending not to notice a girl in a crop top batting her eyelashes at him from across the room and having his rum and coke spilled down his arm every time that one of the ten million people in this tiny room bump into him. It's only for the love of Eskel that he's allowed himself to be dragged out into this hellscape along with the rest of the family.

"Oh come on, Gerry, it's not  _ that bad," _ Lambert says. He has a beer in his hand and one leg slung posessively over Aiden's where the man is seated next to him. Apparently they've been a thing for a while now, and just hadn't bothered to share that with anyone until Eskel had caught them fucking in the back office at Kaer Morsels the other week. Now that the cat is out of the bag, they're almost as disgustingly demonstrative in their affection for one another at Jaskier and Eskel.

They'd offered to invite Vesemir, too, to keep Geralt from being a fifth wheel, which would have put him in the way weirder position of being a sixth wheel sharing an axle with his father. Thank god the old man had volunteered to save Geralt the cost of a babysitter and watch Ciri instead, so that Geralt could retain at least  _ some _ dignity. He'd rather show up to this stupid thing alone than with--

"Regis!" Eskel suddenly exclaims, throwing his arms wide in excitement. "You made it!"

Geralt looks up from the wet napkin he's been shredding into tiny strips and sees that Eskel is not, in fact, hallucinating. Regis himself is approaching their table, more dressed down than usual in a pair of dark jeans and a deep navy button down shirt, and yet still the best dressed person in the bar by a mile. He has a drink in his hand and a slightly awkward expression as he scans their group with those sharp eyes. Finally his gaze falls on Geralt, and at last Regis smiles.

"Good evening, Kaer Morsels and company," Regis says warmly, though his eyes linger a little on Geralt before he looks back at the rest of their party. "Sorry I'm late. Complications with a laparoscopy. I didn't miss the main event, did I?"

"Nope, they haven't even started with the poet lineup yet. I'm not due to the stage area for another-- _ ah, fuck, _ two minutes ago." Jaskier scrambles out of his chair, darts in to kiss Eskel on the cheek, then dashes off towards the stage with a jaunty, "Back in a jiff!"

Jaskier's chair had been immediately on Geralt's left, in between him and Eskel, and the eldest brother now pats the freshly vacated seat. "Join us, Regis. Jaskier won't be needing this for a while."

"If you're certain I'm not imposing," Regis says graciously, taking the offered chair, "thank you."

It occurs to Geralt as Regis' knee and elbow brush gently against his own that this is the first time they've ever not had the separation of a counter between them. It also occurs to him that he should probably say something, considering that all he's done so far is sit there and look stupid. Should he say hi? Has too much time passed since Regis sat down for him to say hi now? He could comment about the weather maybe. Fuck, what's the weather like outside?

"What are you doing here?" is what finally winds up coming out of his mouth. 

A vicious boot tip suddenly makes contact with Geralt's shin, and he jumps a bit and looks over to find Lambert glaring at him ferociously. "I invited him," Lambert huffs. "Mentioned he was a fan of the arts one time, so I figured I'd invite him to come experience the best of the best. Or, you know, whatever Jaskier ranks as. The okayest of the okay."

Regis clears his throat. "You don't... mind that I came, do you?" he asks with a note of uncertainty in his usually confident voice. He isn’t looking at Lambert.

"Uh. Nope."

Fantastic. Another thrilling conversation courtesy of Geralt DiRivia. This is why he's fuckin' single.

Geralt is saved from his mental agony by the interruption of the emcee announcing that the poetry portion of the evening is about to begin, and Geralt has a great excuse now to abandon all thoughts of smalltalk and turn his attention to the little stage built off to one side of the dance floor. He sees Jaskier off to one side of it, bouncing on his toes with excitement as he waits for his turn, and Geralt lets himself focus on the performances that pass instead of the unexpected arrival of the man next to him.

I mean, it doesn't exactly work. He spends more time thinking about Regis' appearance than whatever earnest social commentary is happening on stage, but at least he  _ tries. _

Jaskier performs, Geralt applauds --he's not doing the stupid finger snapping thing-- and the night continues on. There are a half dozen other performers, and after they've all completed their sets the bar turns back into an actual bar with music and whatnot. Jaskier returns to the table full of more energy than before, like the true blue extrovert that he is. He's pretty much walking circles around their table, chattering away, and just the sight of him is enough to make Geralt dizzy. 

Everyone is talking and laughing and moving around him, and Geralt --who is definitely  _ not _ an extrovert-- is starting to feel a little overwhelmed The volume increases as everyone gets a little tipsier and more excited than before. The music gets louder, too, and the room fuller as they move from "evening" hours to full on Friday night. The air in the bar is getting warmer as people start moving and dancing, packed in close around them like sardines, and Geralt needs to get out. Now.

He opens his mouth to say as much, but finds that no one is looking at him. Regis has turned away to say something to Jaskier, Eskel has wandered off to the bar, and Lambert and Aiden have their tongues down each others' throats. Geralt closes his mouth and just slips quietly off his chair instead. He'll just be gone for a second, and no one will even miss him before he has time to return.

There's a patio off the second story, he knows from experience, and he pushes through the crowd and up the stairs past the secondary dance floor up there with the promise of the sweet relief of fresh air and silence to motivate him. Sure enough, they're still in the sweet spot of the night where no one else is quite drunk enough to need a break yet, everyone still in there dancing their little hearts out, and the balcony is empty. Geralt sucks in a breath of cool night air and instantly feels a little better.

There's a little table out there with a few rickety chairs around it, and Geralt plops down on one like it's a plush throne fit for a king. He allows his eyes to close as he continues just to breathe, inhaling the lightly cigarette-scented air and exhaling the tension that he hadn't noticed building in his shoulders. Fuck, he really shouldn't have come out tonight. This isn't his scene, has  _ never _ been his scene, and to think that had magically changed for him just because he wants to be the kind of brother and friend who enjoys this sort of thing is a damned fool thing to entertain.

The door behind him opens, allowing a swell of sound out into the relative quiet of the night. "Geralt?" comes a concerned voice-- Regis. "Oh, there you are! Are you alright?"

Opening his eyes, Geralt watches as Regis shuts the door behind him and closes the distance between them in a few graceful strides. He realizes that Regis is waiting for an answer. "Hmm," he helpfully supplies.

Regis frowns harder. "Can I touch you?"

Geralt is so startled that it doesn't occur to him to say no, despite the bizarre nature of the request. "Yeah."

He isn't sure what kind of touch he'd been expecting, but he's surprised when Regis reaches out to lay a hand on his forehead, then press gently at the side of his throat. "You're a little warm, but not feverish. Pulse is elevated."

"What are you doing?" Geralt asks him, bewildered.

"Checking to make sure that you're well," Regis simply replies. "Are you lightheaded at all? You look a little pale."

"I'm always pale."

"Ah, but you're usually a lovely shade of ivory. Today you're bordering on sage."

It draws a startled laugh out of Geralt, which makes Regis smile down at him in turn. "Fuck. No, I'm okay, I just... don't do well with crowds. Not like a phobia or anything. Just not a fan. Rather be at home than out at some crowded bar."

"To tell you the truth, I'm a homebody myself. And yet, here we are." He cocks his head toward the empty chair next to Geralt's and raises an eyebrow. "Is it alright if I sit with you?"

Geralt nods and watches as Regis seats himself, far enough apart that they don't touch at all, but close enough that Geralt kind of wants them to. Regis puts his drink down on the table, fiddling absently with the stirrer in it, making the ice cubes chase each other around the glass. "So if you don't like going out, why did you?" he asks Regis after a moment. "Not that I'm not glad to see you. It was... a nice surprise. Just curious why you'd come."

"Haven't you heard? I'm a  _ 'fan of the arts.'" _ He says it with such a heavy layer of sarcasm on top that Geralt has no doubt that the explanation from earlier was just Lambert being full of shit. Which he usually is, so that tracks. "And you?"

"Gotta throw my family a bone once in a while," Geralt answers with a shrug. "They start giving me shit if I skip too many group functions. Besides, I'm a little afraid of Jaskier. He's kind of feral when he wants to be."

"Noted. I'll get my rabies shot updated in case he gets it in his head to bite." A laugh is tugged from Geralt's chest once more, and the sudden inhale of vaguely smoky air tickles his throat. He turns his head to cough into his elbow, and feels cool glass and condensation against his fingertips. "Here, you can have the rest of my drink," Regis offers.

Geralt shakes his head. "Thank you, but I shouldn't. I'm driving all of those knuckleheads home tonight."

"Not to worry, it's only soda," Regis explains. Geralt looks up at him with surprise --who comes to a bar just to drink overpriced Coke?-- and he waves his hand dismissively. "I don't drink. Or not anymore, I don't. I'm 8 years sober last month."

He says it casually, like it's something as simple as having brown eyes or two matching shoes, but Geralt feels a little shock at the intimacy of the statement. Regis has just shared something with him that many would consider very private, and hadn't even batted an eyelash. As if he trusts Geralt with important pieces of himself, despite the fact that they're relative strangers.

It's probably been a beat too long since Geralt should have replied, because Regis is looking over at him with a slight furrow to his brow. "That's amazing," Geralt hurries to say, before Regis gets any wrong ideas about how Geralt has taken that news. "That can't have been easy. Or  _ be _ easy. 8 years is incredible."

Regis makes that save dismissive gesture, and Geralt wants to reach out and grab hold of his hand to stop him from waving compliments away. "Yes, well, I would of course prefer to never have gotten to the point where I was an alcoholic in the first place, but. In any case, I prefer to look to the future instead of the past."

A little silence falls between them. It's probably Geralt's fault; it had been his turn in the conversation, but he hadn't been able to think of a single intelligent thing to say. Regis doesn't seem to mind, however. The silence is a comfortable one, underscored by the dulled thrum of the music from inside and the traffic on the street below. 

Eventually, Geralt asks, "Is your patient okay?"

Regis blinks at him, surprised by the sudden break of silence and more than a little confused, if his expression is anything to go by. "Come again?"

"Your patient, with the complications. You said you got held up. Are they okay?"

"Oh! That's very thoughtful of you to ask." Regis smiles at him, quiet but warm. "Yes, he's fine, nothing I couldn't handle."

"You're very confident in your work."

"I have many years of experience to back up my belief that I'm very good at what I do." Something about the way that Regis says it makes it sound not like a brag at all, just a simple statement of fact. A mischievous glint enters his eye, however, as he raises his hands in front of him and waggles his fingers. "I've been told I ought to get these insured. They're masterful tools, these hands."

He means surgery. He definitely means surgery, and Geralt's brain knows that, but his dick has a variety of other interpretations that it insists on dwelling upon. Time for a subject change, immediately. "So what's the real story, then?" he hurries to say, keeping his eyes fixed on Regis' face instead of his hands. "You aren't a secret poetry fan, and you're not here for the drinks or the atmosphere, so why come?"

Regis heaves a deep sigh and leans forward in his chair a bit, rubbing a hand across his jaw contemplatively where a hint of salt and pepper 5 o'clock shadow is starting to show. "I have a confession to make," he says gravely. "I may have had an ulterior motive to coming to see Jaskier perform."

"Oh?"

"You see, there's someone I'm quite interested in," Regis begins, looking right at Geralt, and he feels a little flip-flopping in his stomach. "He's gorgeous, and kind, and never fails to surprise me the more I learn about him. I've been enamored with this man for quite some time, and I don't think I'm very successful in being subtle about it."

Geralt's heartbeat is quick in his chest. "Who knows, maybe he's really dumb and hasn't noticed your flirting," he suggests.

"That may be what others think, but I think I know him better than that." Regis taps the side of his nose. "No, I think he knows, and I don't think he's opposed to my interest, either."

"So what's the catch?" Geralt asks, though he already knows. Too much baggage that comes along with the pretty face, that's what.

But Regis just smiles. "I happen to think it's in extremely bad taste to make a direct advance on someone at their place of work, and regrettably, I only ever see this man when he's working. So when I received an invitation to an event... well, I have to be honest, I came here so that I could get a chance to talk with the object of my affections on neutral ground, and hope that he doesn't think that I'm coming on too strong."

He can feel his face getting hot under Regis' scrutiny, even though Geralt has fixed his own eyes firmly on the table. "Regis..."

"Geralt." A hand reaches out and lays gently overtop of Geralt's, and it's instinct to look up when his name is called. Geralt finds Regis looking at him gently, but with the firm assuredness that he usually carries about his person. "If I'm wrong," he continues when he sees that he has Geralt's full attention, "if you're not interested, I'll drop it. I don't wish to make you uncomfortable whatsoever. But I don't think that I'm wrong, Geralt."

Is it the vast expanse of the starry sky above him making Geralt feel so brave? "You're not wrong," he answers after only a moment's hesitation. "I do... I mean I am. Interested. Attracted. But it's not that simple."

"Alright," Regis says easily. "What makes it complicated?"

What  _ doesn't? _ "My life isn't simple," Geralt tries to explain. "There's Ciri, for one. I love her more than anything, but being a single dad is..."

"Admirable? Brave? Inspiring?" suggests Regis.

"Complicated." Geralt scowls at the table again, wishing that he didn't have to spell this out. Wishing that he was a normal thirty year-old who could just say yes to things that he wanted, without having to worry about whether those things were things he was allowed to want anymore. "It's been... a while. Since I've been with someone. When Ciri first came to me, she needed me all the time, and now I'm just... rusty."

"Only one way to get rid of rust, and that's to get back in motion," remarks Regis.

"Yeah, well. Even if I did, I don't think I'm... I'm not as charming as you think I am." Regis isn't giving him the easy out. He's going to make Geralt come right out and say it. "You only see me for five minutes at a time. Trust me, I have it on the good authority of literally everyone who knows me that after a while you get sick and tired of all of the... Geraltness."

Regis sits back in his chair, picking up the drink that Geralt has declined to share and taking a sip from it. Geralt is gratified to see that he actually looks like he's considering the words instead of just dismissing them out of hand. After a long moment, he finally speaks. "I hear what you're saying, about the complications of single fatherhood, and I won't pretend to know what that's like. I've never been a father. But truth be told... when you get to be my age, you stop thinking about things in a framework of what you can and can't do and start thinking about how to make what you want happen. Whatever forces in the universe brought you to this point in your life don't determine what choices you make or what opportunities you have. Only  _ you _ get to decide that."

"And what if I make the wrong choice?" Geralt asks quietly.

"Then you've learned something." Regis taps Geralt's arm with a single finger. "Give me one date. Give me one evening of your time, and we can see how that feels. If it isn't something you want, then you've only lost an evening. And if it turns out that you want this as much as I do, then we can have another. And if at any point I get overwhelmed by your  _ Geraltness, _ I promise to let you down easily like a true gentleman and continue to treat you and Kaer Morsels with the exact same respect I always have. Nothing lost but an evening. Can we try that?"

He should say no. It'll be easier that way, if he just doesn't even get started down this path. If he doesn't make an attempt, it can't fall apart on him. The right thing to do here would be to turn Regis down outright, thank him for his kindness but tell him that whatever Regis was hoping for just isn't in the cards for them, for  _ him, _ at all. He should definitely say no.

Geralt takes a deep breath. "What the hell. Why not?"


	2. change of plans

The date hasn't even started yet, and already this is a disaster. 

"Geraaaaalt," Ciri whines, draped backwards over the arm of the couch so that her pale blonde hair brushes the carpet. Her face is starting to get red, but she remains determined as her sparkly leggings and dinosaur socks reach unsteadily for the ceiling. "Come hold my legs for me so that I can do a headstand."

"I don't think it counts as a headstand unless your head is touching the floor," Geralt answers distractedly, listening to the phone line ring and turn over to voicemail for the third time in twenty minutes. He doesn't bother leaving a message this time, since the other two clearly haven't gotten him any results. Ciri's babysitter, the college-aged granddaughter of one of Vesemir's neighbors, was supposed to be here half an hour ago and has yet to be heard from, much less seen. Meanwhile, Regis is going to be showing up any minute.

Ciri has considered his response carefully. "Oh. Right. A handstand, then."

"In a minute, okay? I'm trying to get ahold of Brynna. Take a break for a minute, monkey-child, before your brain leaks out of your ears."

A dull thud tells him that Ciri has taken his advice and flipped off of the couch to be rightside up again. He really ought to switch her from dance to gymnastics. Ideally he'd love to have her in both, since maybe that would help her burn off some of her infuriatingly endless supply of energy, but there's no way the budget can swing that. Once a week dance only happens because Vesemir dotes on her and helps him pay half of the tuition. 

"Where are you going, again?" Ciri asks, wandering over to Geralt and wiggling her way under his arm as he texts Brynna for the millionth time. 

"On a date," he answers honestly. He's never believed in lying to kids, and Ciri has never given him any reason to think that he ought to dumb down or sugar coat anything for her. She deserves the full truth, and she gets it, from him at least.

Indeed, she doesn't seem phased by the answer, just looks up at him curiously. "Oh. Is it a girl or a boy?"

"A boy. I don't like girls."

"Only me?"

Somewhere in Geralt's rib cage a puddle forms where his heart used to be, before Ciri melted it. "That's different. But yeah, I love you best, always." He answers her smile with one of his own, quickly kisses her forehead, and gives her messy hair a tussle. "Alright, ready for help with a handstand?"

"Heck yeah!" Ciri cheers, immediately bending over to place her palms on the floor. "Don't let me fall, okay? This is your job now."

Before he can fulfill his new purpose in life as an ankle wrangler, they're interrupted by a knock on the door. "Hang on a second, Ciri. Let me just--" He steps around her and to the door, praying silently that he'll open it to see a redheaded music major prepared to supervise a small child for an evening. If some sort of cosmic entity does exist, and it's merciful--

The door swings open to reveal Regis, standing there looking unreasonably good in his usual three-piece suit and holding a bouquet of flowers. "Geralt, hello," he says breezily.

"God damn it," Geralt sighs.

"Swear jar!" Ciri giggles.

Regis' eyebrows go up, cocking his head ever so slightly as his face takes on a slightly confused expression. "Were you... hoping that I wouldn't come?" he asks slowly.

"No! I was just-- was hoping you were the sitter. No, I'm... glad you came. Hey."  _ Amazing. All charm, as usual. _ "Um, do you want to come in?"

"I'd love to." Regis smiles, open and genuine, and offers Geralt the flowers in his hands. "These are for you, by the way."

They look like little daisies, but as Geralt breathes them in, he finds to his surprise that it's actually-- "Chamomile?"

"In flower language, chamomile means patience. An important virtue, since sometimes we must wait a little while for wonderful things to come to fruition." Regis winks at Geralt, and his stomach flutters a little at the sight. "It also makes a lovely calming tea."

"Beautiful and practical," Geralt muses, "I love it. Thank you, Regis. I've never... no one's ever bought me flowers before, I don't think."

"An error I'm happy to correct."

Geralt shuts the door behind Regis as he steps inside, and both of them naturally turn to look at Ciri, who's up on one of the tall stools at the counter now looking curious and a little suspicious. She points at the two piggy banks on the counter until Geralt obligingly fishes a dollar out of his pocket and puts it in, but her eyes never leave Regis. "Hello," she announces as she looks him over appraisingly. "I'm Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon DiCintra. I'm a mouthful."

"Your  _ name _ is a mouthful," Geralt corrects with a smirk.  _ "You're _ a handful."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Cirilla," Regis says, reaching a hand to her. She shakes it vigorously, whole arm pumping up and down with the motion, and Regis smiles widely at her. "I've heard many good things about you, and I can already tell that they're all true. I have a lot of names, too, but you can call me Regis."

"What are all the rest of your names?"

"Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy."

"Oh. I think I'll just say Regis, probably." Cirl finally looks away from the new character to glance over at Geralt, then back again. "Are you going on a date with Geralt?"

"I am. If you don't mind me borrowing him for a little while, that is."

"But you'll bring him back though, right?" Ciri places her hand on Geralt's elbow, just for a moment, almost possessively. She has the smallest of frowns on her face, suddenly serious, as if negotiating a nuclear arms deal instead of discussing Geralt's dinner plans. "Borrowing means you give it back."

"You have my most sincere promises," Regis says solemnly, then offers his hand again, pinky raised this time. "I have no intention to steal him, only to share."

Ciri considers him for one moment more, wraps her pinky finger around his to seal the oath, and nods with finality. "Okay. See ya!" With that, she's off again, darting back into the living room to continue watching whatever weird kid cartoon is the flavor of the week this week.

"I have to admit, I've had less nervewracking job interviews," Regis remarks in a mock whisper. "Hell, I've had less nervewracking neurosurgeries. She's quite a commanding presence, that little lion cub of yours."

"Tell me about it," Geralt sighs. "Sorry, do you mind waiting a few more minutes? The babysitter should have been here already, but I can't get ahold of her and I have no clue where she is."

"Of course," Regis says at once, waving it away. He checks his watch. "Our reservations aren't for another 45 minutes, and it'll only take half that time to get there. No rush at all."

Reservations, fuck. That means a timeline, which is a parent's worst enemy. It also means that Geralt is underdressed, probably, because if Regis is in a three piece suit then that's probably what everyone will be wearing. And Geralt's jeans and a henley is... not on the same level at all. He picks up his phone and dials Brynna yet again, wondering as he does so whether it would be weird to go change now that Regis has seen him. Not that he has a suit anyways, let alone one as nice as Regis, but he probably still has the khakis and polo that he wore to Yen and Triss' wedding. That's better, right? At least a  _ little _ better, probably--

"Hello?"

"Brynna! Hey," Geralt says with relief. "Hey, sorry to keep calling, I was just wondering when you were going to be here. My um, my date is here."

There's a long pause on the other side of the phone, and Geralt feels his stomach drop. There's no way that this is a good sign. Finally, after a decade or two, Brynna says, "Wait, so you meant  _ this _ Friday? I thought we were talking about  _ next  _ Friday."

This is not good. This is really, really not good. "No, I meant tonight. I-- please tell me you're available," he pleads. "My date..."

"I'm so sorry, Mr. DiRivia, I'm actually out of town this weekend. I only just got off the plane, I flew out to see my grandmother out of state."

Disappointment and embarrassment rush through him with enough force to make Geralt physically sick to his stomach. "Shit. Okay. Sorry, that's my fault. I... should have been more specific."  _ I should have never been enough of an idiot to believe that I could make a dating life work. _

"Did you still want me to come next weekend?" Brynna asks, sounding a little sheepish herself.

"Uh, I'll let you know," Geralt sighs. Probably not, since there's a snowball's chance in hell of him getting a rain check after a disaster like this. "Bye Brynna, enjoy your visit."

Brynna says her own goodbyes and they hang up, and Geralt tosses his phone onto the counter in favor of burying his face in his hands. Regis places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Geralt? Is everything alright?"

"Miscommunication with the sitter," Geralt grunts into his palms. "Got the date mixed up. She can't come tonight.  _ Fuck." _

"Swear jar!" Ciri calls from the living room.

Geralt fishes another dollar out of his pocket and stuffs it into the already overflowing jar, mind whirling. "Ves and Lambert and Eskel are camping... maybe I could call Yen? But she's like half an hour away... fu--  _ frick," _ he catches himself at the last minute. "Regis, I'm so sorry. I'm an idiot, I should have verified with the sitter, and now you're here and I have no one to watch Ciri and-- god, I'm so stupid."

"Geralt, it's alright, these things happen," Regis says calmly, reaching out to take Geralt by the shoulders. "Sitters fall through. Plans change. The world continues to turn."

"I know you had reservations and everything, but could we reschedule?" Geralt says hopefully. "I'm sorry, I know this is annoying, after you drove all the way over here. She said she could sit next Friday, though. If you don't want to reschedule, I understand--"

"Geralt, breathe," Regis says with a smile. "Of course we can reschedule, if that's what you want to do."

"Well it's not what I  _ want _ to do," Geralt gripes, a little of his anxiety easing. A second chance. Maybe he hasn't blown it yet. "What I want to do is spend time with you  _ now, _ but... guess I screwed the pooch on that one."

"Well, we could always keep the original timing and change the plans," counters Regis. "I could cancel the reservation and order in some dinner instead. Watch a movie, or play a game."

"You... want to stay in? With Ciri here with us?" He would try to keep the bewilderment out of his voice, but there's honestly no point. "Why?"

"Because she's part of the package, and I like that about you." Regis shrugs. "I don't mind including her. I rather like the cub."

"You can't tell me that you'd rather hang out with my five year old than go to dinner at a fancy restaurant," protests Geralt. "You had plans for the night already."

"Yes, and my plans were, above all else, to spend time with you." Regis had never removed his comforting grip on Geralt's shoulders, and he gives a gentle squeeze now that Geralt wishes were a proper hug. "Genuinely, Geralt. It's up to you. Just tell me when and where I fit into the puzzle and I'm more than happy to be there."

"Stay," Geralt says softly, because he doesn't trust himself to say any more than that. "I'd like for you to stay."

"Then stay I shall," Regis answers, and leans in to give Geralt a kiss on the cheek that somehow, inexplicably, seems to linger for a long while after that.

Reservations are cancelled, pizza is ordered, and Ciri is ecstatic to learn about the change in plans for the evening. She hears the word 'game' and immediately insists on dragging out their entire collection of board games from the top of the coat closet and spreading them all out on the living room floor so that they can fully evaluate their options. Monopoly is quickly ruled out, because Geralt has a bad habit of getting too competitive with that one and he'd rather his first date with Regis not end in murder, thanks. Operation is also a no go, on account of certain party members having an unfair advantage. Ciri gives her sage recommendation in favor of Candyland, so of course that's the journey they wind up going on.

"Don't worry, I'll let her win," Regis whispers to Geralt while Ciri is setting up the board. "I know how these things work. Don't want to cause a meltdown."

Geralt just grins. "Alright."

By the time pizza arrives, they're getting their asses handed to them for the third time. Regis looks a little shell shocked, and Ciri looks more than a little smug. "Ah, hell," she grouses as she hits a setback that might, possibly, if they're very lucky, give Geralt and Regis a chance to catch up with her.

"Swear jar," Geralt tells her.

"Uncle Lambert says hell isn't a bad word," he's promptly informed. "He says that the only words you're not supposed to say are the f-word, the b-word, the s-word, and the c-word."

Geralt is very happy that he has two brothers. That way when he murders one, he has a spare. "Yeah, well, uncle Lambert isn't the boss here," he grumbles. "I get final say on swear jar rules."

"Jeebus creepers," Ciri pouts, but she dutifully hops up to go fetch her powerpuff girls coin curse from her room so that she can pay up.

It's as good a place as any to stop for dinner, so while Ciri is distracted, Geralt and Regis set out plates and napkins along the counter and dole out pieces of pizza onto each one. Geralt preemptively blows on Ciri's to avoid any mouth-burn drama, and Regis gestures to the two piggy banks on the counter. One is shaped like Rainbow Dash and has a piece of tape on the side with Geralt's name on it. The other is a skull, labeled with Ciri. "I sense a story here," Regis remarks, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"I didn't exactly have time to prepare for fatherhood," Geralt sighs, "and I'm... not the best at minding my language. Ciri's too smart for her own good, and started copying me. We empty the jars at the end of the month, and whoever paid less to the jar that month gets the pot to spend however they want."

"And who's usually the winner?"

"Ciri enjoys her monthly trips to the candy store to spend all my money."

Regis laughs, loud and unabashed. "And the uh, design choices here? I didn't take you for a fan of... brightly colored unicorns."

"The whole swear jar thing was Vesemir's idea, and he made some assumptions about which piggy bank the five year old girl would like." Geralt smirks. "Turns out the kid isn't a big fan of gender stereotypes. Not like I was gonna argue with her when she said she wanted the skull. Whatever, horses are cool."

"You, Geralt DiRivia," Regis says quietly, "get better every day."

Geralt doesn't know what to say to that, but he's saved by Ciri's return. She stuffs her dollar into the skull jar and climbs up on her stool, barely settling in her seat before she's digging into her pizza like Geralt hasn't fed her in a week. He pushes a napkin towards her and takes the seat beside her, pulling out the chair on his other side for Regis. "Sorry about the paper plates," he says sheepishly. "I uh, need to run the dishwasher. Wasn't expecting company."

"I think in certain places it's considered a crime to eat pizza off of a real plate," Regis says serenely. "Paper plates or bare hands, that's the only way to do it."

He's being kind again. Geralt could probably get used to this.

After dinner there's talk of a movie, and the final game of Candyland is abandoned in favor of taking all of the cushions and pillows in the house and building a nest on the living room floor that's big enough to fit all three of them, but only barely. Ciri claims the part of the nest closest to the TV, leaving Geralt and Regis to sit side by side back by the deconstructed couch. Monsters Inc. is selected unanimously as the movie for the evening, though only because Ciri declares that neither of them get a vote on account of being old and boring.

Regis, who has over the course of the evening shed his jacket, vest, tie, and shoes, looks remarkably comfortable with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and his socked feet crossed at the ankle. He leans back against the mound of pillows behind him and rolls his head over to look at Geralt. "I've never seen this one, I don't think. Is it any good?"

"It is, actually. Having seen it about a hundred thousand times, I can confirm that it holds up pretty well." Geralt pretends to shift a few pillows on his throne so that he has an excuse to readjust a few inches closer to Regis. Close enough that their arms are touching, just a little bit, and Geralt feels his stomach do a subtle little flip-flop.

His attempt at stealth proves fruitless, and Regis picks up on the proximity at once. He doesn't tease Geralt, though, just makes a pleased little humming noise and lifts his arm to wrap it around Geralt's shoulders instead, pulling him even closer. It doesn't matter that objectively speaking Geralt is bigger than Regis by quite a lot; he still feels inexplicably safe and warm in that casual one-armed embrace alone. "This alright?" Regis murmurs, eyes darting over to where Ciri is paying them absolutely no mind.

Rather than answer, Geralt shuffles down a bit so that he can rest his head against Regis' shoulder. "You're missing the exposition. Pay attention, there'll be a quiz after."

It takes Regis a minute to drag his eyes back to the screen, and honestly, this is a much better plan than dinner on the town.

Ciri makes it almost to the end of the movie before her energy runs out. She's made her way into Geralt's lap and has been leaning more and more heavily against him with every minute, and now she's starting to crumple slowly sideways. Regis looks down with a fond smile on his face as she gives up the struggle to stay vertical and lays instead with her head on his lap, draped across the both of them like they collectively make up the most comfortable piece of furniture that she's ever experienced. After a second, he reaches up and cards his fingers through her hair, and it's all downhill after that. 

Three minutes later, Geralt looks over and sees her fast asleep, mouth hanging wide open and drooling on the leg of Regis' dress pants, body contorted in a way that doesn't look like it could possibly be comfortable but must be based on the way that she doesn't budge when Geralt shifts testingly. Regis' fingers continue to stroke through her unruly hair, gentle and slow, and Ciri never twitches.

"You've got to teach me that trick," murmurs Geralt, gesturing with a jerk of his chin towards Regis' hand. "Could be a useful skill."

"Magic hands," Regis replies with a wink, and there goes Geralt's mind careening into the gutter again. "I'm telling you, they're the moneymakers."

"I... should get her to bed." He's flustered, more than he should be, and he has to break eye contact with Regis in order to recollect enough brain cells to remember that he's here with his daughter asleep on his legs and actual parental duties to uphold. "Will you stay? I mean-- if I go get her settled, you'll wait for a minute until I get back?"

He can feel Regis' eyes on his skin, and they feel hot enough to scorch. "I'll wait as long as you like."

Right. Daughter. Bedtime. Focus.

Geralt rouses her from sleep as gently as he can, but still winds up carrying her out of the living room when she complains at a groggy mumble that her legs are too tired to walk. They make a quick stop in the bathroom so that she can pee before bed, then it's a quick wrangle out of day clothes and into a nightgown before she's back to snoozing soundly, this time tucked into her ninja turtle bed. He kisses her forehead, turns on her nightlight, and makes sure to close the door soundly on his way out.

When he reaches the entrance to the living room, Geralt stops to lean against the door frame for a moment and admire the view. Regis hasn't moved from the pillow nest, and he looks ridiculously inviting like this, laid back on the pillows looking soft and tousled. Geralt's not sure whether he wants to snuggle him or suck his cock. Maybe both. Definitely both.

"Would you like to watch another movie?" Regis asks, raising his eyebrows at Geralt. "Seems a shame to waste a perfectly good pillow nest."

"That depends. By 'watch another movie' do you mean 'put another movie on in the background and make out?'"

He actually licks his lips, gaze anything but subtle as it looks Geralt over where he stands. "You tell me."

Geralt doesn't tell him. He grabs the remote off of the coffee table and clicks through the menu until he finds some random National Geographic documentary to put on. Then he tosses the remote and takes the seat he's been eyeing all night: in Regis' lap, facing him, thighs on either side of his hips. Instantly warm arms wrap around him, and Geralt knows he's made an excellent choice.

"Too forward?" he asks, just in case, draping his arms around Regis' neck and looking at him carefully.

"No," comes the answer, heavy-lidded and purring, "perfection."

There's a split second before their lips meet where Geralt worries that he might be terrible at it. It's been... a while. A long while. He could blame surprise parenthood, but truth be told, he'd been in the middle of a dry spell before that anyways, so it's been a lifetime and a half since the last time he just took the time to sit and kiss someone. He needn't have worried, though. Once they're kissing, it's all instinct, teeth and lips and tongue moving to learn the taste and feel of another. Who cares about a few years of rust when he has things to learn about the way Regis' teeth feel on his lower lip?

A shiver runs down Geralt's spine the first time that Regis' tongue teases across his own, and as that little zing of electricity races down to his groin, Geralt becomes aware of how hard he is and how insistently his cock is pressing into Regis' stomach. Not that Regis appears to mind whatsoever; his hands are on Geralt's hips keeping him there, and if Geralt's not mistaken, he isn't the only one enjoying himself. Regis' own cock is hard beneath him, and Geralt can't help shifting a bit to grind their lengths together just a bit through their many  _ \--far  _ too many-- layers of clothing. 

"I'm not normally this frisky on a first date," Geralt feels compelled to say. "Normally take a little longer to warm up to someone, but... have kind of been dancing around this for a while now, haven't we?"

"I'm not complaining a bit," Regis says in a voice so rough it borders on a growl. One of his hands slips up the back of Geralt's shirt so that he can rake his nails ever so lightly across the planes of his back, and Geralt almost chokes on a desperate little groan. "You're going to undo me, so responsive and easy like that," Regis says wistfully. "I can't wait to take you apart properly, darling."

"So what the hell are you waiting for?" Geralt groans.

It's supposed to spur Regis to action, but instead he just sighs. "Privacy," he says regretfully. "There are one too many pairs of ears in this apartment for what I have planned for you."

"I can be quiet," Geralt offers immediately. "I'm great at being quiet. It's kind of my trademark."

"Mmm, but I don't want you to." Regis nuzzles at his throat in a way that really isn't helping. "If I have my way, there will be plenty of occasions where you and I will have to watch the volume. Not the first time, though. I want to know what you sound like."

Geralt has to shift back a little in Regis' lap to keep himself from grinding down harder at the promise in those words. "You drive a hard bargain," he sighs, dropping his forehead to rest against Regis'.

"Don't worry," Regis says with a little chuckle. "I don't intend to make you suffer very long, believe me. I'm just waiting until the timing is right."

Time, Geralt decides, needs to hurry the fuck up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to my homies with kids tryna get laid, humanity feels for you


	3. lambert is an ally

"I have something special for you." Geralt says before Regis has even made it through the door.

It's Tuesday morning, bright and early, and Eskel has made himself scarce in the back as usual. He doesn't know, of course, that there's any more reason than usual to be giving Geralt and Regis their space. Their first date, and the intent for more, has so far been kept just between the two of them. And also Ciri.

"For me? And here I thought that walking in here and seeing your smile was the treat." He winks, and Geralt blushes. "Tell me, then, what is it?"

Geralt has the bags ready to go, all full of Regis' usual orders, but he places a smaller box on the counter as well. "Chamomile lemon poppy seed loaf. Bread is my specialty. The flowers... chamomile is used in baking sometimes." He swallows down a knot of awkwardness in his throat. It's not  _ your _ flowers, obviously. I bought more. Yours are on my table. I like them."

Regis' smile widens. He pulls the box on the counter towards him, then opens it up and pulls out a slice of the loaf and immediately takes a bite. His eyes drift closed as he takes in the flavor, still warm from the oven, and Geralt feels a rush of something akin to power. "This is perfection," Regis tells him solemnly when he's swallowed his bite and opened his eyes again. "This one, I think, I'll keep to myself."

"Good," Geralt says with a little gulp. He leans in closer to Regis across the counter, resting his elbows on the surface. "We still on for tonight?"

Regis leans in, too, mirroring Geralt's pose, so that their lips are just a breath apart when he whispers, "Wouldn't miss it for the world." He kisses Geralt then, far too brief and far too tantalizing, leaving Geralt to stare mournfully after him as he picks up his bags and starts backing towards the door. "I hope that the rest of your day is lovely, Geralt."

"Hmph. Go save some lives, or whatever."

When Regis is gone, Geralt gives it a few minutes before he goes back into the kitchen to return to his breadmaking solitude and let Eskel handle the customers. Walking isn't exactly comfortable at the moment. He knows that he's lucky that he was able to twist Lambert's arm into babysitting Ciri for a few hours this evening so that he wouldn't have to wait for Friday, but at the same time, being this close to finally getting some alone time with Regis... today is going to move very slowly.

It does eventually pass, though, after a few decades or so. He's got the early shift today so that he can pick her up from her morning kindergarten and take her to dance class, instead of her spending the afternoon with Vesemir like usual. It might be his imagination, but the roomful of tiny ballerinas is almost definitely moving in slow motion. Eventually, at long last, 4:00 rolls around and the time comes for Geralt to drop Ciri off at Lambert's apartment. She's bouncing on the balls of her feet as she waits for Lambert to open the door already, and Geralt can honestly relate.

The door swings open, and Ciri yells out an enthusiastic, "Hi uncle Lambert!" and gives him a quick hug before darting past him towards the living room. "Bye Geralt!" she calls as an afterthought.

"I think she only loves me for my video games," Lambert muses.

"I think she only loves  _ me _ for your video games, too," confirms Geralt. "8 still okay? I'll take her home for bed, she's got school tomorrow."

"Yeah man, that's fine. Where are you going, anyways?" He looks over Geralt's outfit-- dark jeans and a black button down shirt with a black tie-- with suspicion. "You look kinda nice. What is it, like a job interview?"

"Gonna go eat some dinner," Geralt says evasively, trying not to wonder about whether 'kinda nice' is good enough. He fishes out his wallet and shoves some cash at Lambert. "For the pizza. She'll tell you she likes anchovies, but she doesn't. Just get her pepperoni or cheese. And no soda or juice after 6, please."

"Yeah, sure."

"Lambert."

"Alright, okay, no soda or juice after 6, I hear you!" Lambert says with a roll of his eyes. "Go eat McDonalds alone in your car or whatever passes for a fun night out when you're 0% fun."

"Bye Lambert. Bye Ciri, I love you!" he calls louder into the apartment. There's some sort of unintelligible response yelled back, and that'll have to be good enough for now. He knows where he ranks against the Lego superhero game.

He's supposed to be meeting Regis at his condo, and while it takes him less than 20 minutes to get there from Lambert's place, he feels like he's driven to another planet entirely. This part of town isn't one that Geralt has ever had cause to visit, since every shop and restaurant is foreign to him and even the tightest apartments were probably buried ten pages deep on his apartments.com 'sort: price low to high' househunting. He has to check the address on his phone when he pulls up to what he thinks is Regis' building, because it looks more like an upscale hotel than a place where you can actually  _ live. _

But sure enough, this is the place, complete with a valet and a doorman who both help direct him into an elevator where he pushes the P button to get to Regis' floor. With every floor that he ascends, Geralt's heart beats a little faster with anticipation. Then at last he's put out into a little lobby area with only one door for Geralt to reach up with a slightly sweaty hand and tentatively knock on.

There's a little shuffling from inside, and then the door swings wide to reveal Regis, dashing as ever, standing there looking at Geralt like he's not the only one who feels like he's getting the first easy breath of air so far today. "Geralt," he hums happily.

"I brought you flowers," Geralt says bluntly, offering the bouquet he's been crushing in his left hand the whole way from the car. He doesn't know what kind they are, only that they're a deep shade of red that had made him think of Regis and also manage to match the man's shirt perfectly tonight. "I don't know what they mean, I didn't ask. Just thought they looked nice."

"And yet, the gift pales in comparison to the giver," Regis says with a mischievous look, taking the flowers without giving them more than a glance. "Get over here, will you?"

It's only the third time they've kissed, but already the action feelings familiar to Geralt. He likes the taste of him, and the way that Regis' hand spreads possessively across his back, and the way he forgets about everything around him when he has Regis to focus on. They could be in the middle of Times Square right now instead of in the doorway to Regis' penthouse, and Geralt isn't at all sure that he'd notice.

When they pull apart, Regis' pupils are wide and dark. "I ought to be careful about that," he remarks, almost to himself. "A man could get addicted to kissing you." Before Geralt can think of any sort of a response, Regis takes a step back and grabs his keys and wallet from a little table in the foyer and replaces them with the flowers. "Let's be off, then."

"You're not going to put those in water or anything?" Geralt says with a raised eyebrow.

"Later," comes the reply. Regis shuts and locks the door without taking his hungry eyes off of Geralt. "If I put them in water now, I'll have to invite you inside. And if I invite you inside... we won't make it to dinner."

Geralt has never resented his body's need for food so much in his life, but he puts that thought aside for now. Dinner first, then dessert. He can handle that.

..................... 

He cannot, as it turns out, handle that.

Neither can Regis, though, so at least he's not alone in feeling like he might explode if he doesn't get naked and horizontal with Regis  _ yesterday.  _ The restaurant is very nice, an upscale place with a million courses of expensive foods that Geralt isn't entirely sure what they are. And it all tastes delicious, really, some of the best food that Geralt has ever had in his life. The only problem is that the meal is dragging on so goddamn long that he's going to lose his mind before they make it to the end of the meal.

He thought he was doing a good job of covering it up, until 86 hours into the meal they finally get their entrees and Geralt looks up to see Regis looking at him curiously. "Are you alright?" He asks Geralt, reaching out to put a hand on his knee. "You look like the server brought you a death sentence on that plate instead of a steak."

"I'm fine, it's really good," Geralt says with as much of a convincing air as he can muster. "I've just never had a meal this... involved."

The hand on his knee squeezes for a second, almost comfortingly, and then begins to slide slowly up Geralt's thigh. All of the oxygen immediately disappears from the room-- not that Geralt was using it anyways, since he's holding his breath which every inch of ground that Regis' curious palm covers. He only exhales when Regis' hand reaches his now-hard cock and squeezes him gently through the fabric, and then it's all at once, like the breath has been sucker-punched out of him.

"Oh thank god, it's not just me," Regis says with a sigh of relief. "Where's the damned waiter? I need the check. Now."

They're already kissing by the time they make it to Regis' door. They've been kissing in the elevator all the way up. They were also kissing in the resident parking garage before that, and a little bit in the car before they could bother to get out. It's a miracle-- or perhaps a testament to Regis' dexterity and intellect-- that he manages to get the door unlocked, manhandle the both of them inside, and get the door shut and locked behind them. 

Geralt certainly isn't any help, because he's busy with the hundreds of thousands of buttons on Regis' outfit, all of which are personally offending him right now. He wants his hands on Regis, on his skin, with no more barriers in between them. It's really hard to get that goal accomplished, however, when his hands have acquired a bit of a shake. He's not looking, because Regis' hands are all over him, too, and it's too much effort to stay alert and aware when that's happening. He just lets Regis steer them somewhere, and trusts that it'll end up alright.

His back hits a wall, and that's not quite as good as a bed, but he can work with it. In any case, he's excited about the fact that Regis' hands are going for the zipper of his jeans now, working open his fly so that a warm hand can tease him through the thin fabric of his boxers. He finally has to break their frantic string of kisses, because he can't possibly keep that up when he's busy focusing on steady inhales and exhales. 

Regis' doesn't seem bothered. He just starts kissing Geralt's neck instead, laving attention on the sensitive skin there with a hint of rough stubble starting to grow through, and Geralt just stands there and takes it. The sensation might take him out, but at least this is a pretty damn good way to die.

He takes the chance to catch his breath and open his eyes to get the lay of the land now that they're inside the condo properly. It's... nice. Really nice. Not that he'd expected anything else, given the building they're in and the part of town and Regis' general... Regisness. He wasn't quite expecting the way that every piece of furniture speaks of refinement, though. It's just so unlike anything that Geralt has ever seen in a home. It's certainly a far cry from his own home, with its thirdhand furniture and mismatching curtains and the fine dusting of glitter and dirt that small children carry with them wherever they go. He looks around, and is suddenly struck with the realization that his world and Regis' world are so far from one another that it would almost be laughable if it didn't half make him want to cry.

Regis pulls back a little and pauses his gentle caressing of Geralt's cock. "Everything alright?" he asks, a note of concern in his voice. "You seem tense all of a sudden. If we need to stop--"

"No, no," Geralt rushes to assure him, "I'm fine. Just suddenly feeling a little embarrassed about you having come over to my place last weekend."

"Why would you be embarrassed about that?" Regis asks, not unkindly. He removes his hand from the front of Geralt's pants and places it more neutrally on his waist instead. "I quite enjoyed my time at your home. One of the best evenings I've had in a while, in fact. I look forward to many more occasions spending time there with you, if I'm so lucky to be invited again."

"I had a good time, too, it's just... not like this. It must have felt like a shithole compared to what you're used to." Geralt shrugs his shoulder and tries to move forward to capture Regis' mouth in another kiss, but he's stopped by Regis' expression of confusion and a little hurt. "What?"

"You don't really think that I'd think such a thing about your home, do you?" he asks, sounding a little wounded. "Have I ever given you cause to think that I care about something like that?"

Geralt has a moment of instant awareness of exactly how big his foot is in relation to his mouth. He's gone and bungled this whole thing by bringing it up. If he'd just kept his mouth shut, he'd probably be naked by now. "Well no, it's not that I think  _ you'd _ care," he tries to backtrack. "It's just-- I do. It feels weird. Unbalanced. I guess I didn't think about how much until I looked around at this place. We don't... match."

Regis looks at him for a long moment, then takes a little step back, catching one of Geralt's hands in his own as he goes. "Come over here for a minute. Stand right here for a moment and humor me." There's a floor length mirror off to one side of the living room, and Regis positions Geralt in front of it before coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around him. He hooks his chin over Geralt's shoulder, and their eyes meet in the reflection. "What do you see when you look at us?"

"An idiot and his very patient date."

"Perhaps, but not what I was looking for," Regis says with a breathy laugh, tilting his head for a moment to press a kiss to Geralt's shoulder before returning to his original pose. "I mean physically. When you look at the two of us, what do you see?"

Geralt tries not to be frustrated by the question. He isn't good with words on the best of days, and now that he's already feeling stupid, the words are even more stuck than usual. "I don't know what you're asking me," he says finally, after a long tense moment of trying and failing to find what he needs to say.

Maybe Regis senses his frustration, because he doesn't ask again. "When I look at us, I see unbalance," he says simply. "You're young, and handsome, and fit. You look like a mix between a wet dream and a Michelangelo. As compared to me, an old man with hair that won't lay flat and wrinkles around my eyes. Someone kind and creative and fiercely individual, versus a stodgy academic. A loving father and a man whose most significant relationship was with a bottle of whiskey. We don't match, Geralt."

"None of that matters," Geralt argues, tightening his grip on Regis' arm around his waist, offended at the mere suggestion that Regis might not be good enough for him.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't care about any of that," insists Geralt, turning himself around so that he can capture Regis' face between his hands. "That's not what I see when I look at you."

"And I," says Regis quietly, "don't see your income. We don't have to match in order to see the good in each other. They can still fit, your pieces and mine."

Now Geralt  _ really  _ feels like a tool, and he turns his face aside for a second so that he can escape Regis' searching gaze. "Fuck. Sorry. I'm an idiot."

"Far be it from me to pass up an opportunity to point out all the many things I enjoy about you," Regis replies. "Speaking of which, are we done talking about reasons we shouldn't be together now? Because I  _ did  _ have plans for you this evening and we're currently several articles of clothes behind schedule."

Geralt exhales in relief as the clouds part and a ray of hope that he might not have ruined the night after all shines down upon him. "Sounds like we have some catching up to do, then."

They're kissing again, and pulling at clothes, and making their way slowly in the direction of what must be the bedroom. Geralt only knows that when the backs of his bare legs hit a mattress, and he sits down on it on instinct. A hand in the center of his chest pushes him back, and then Geralt is sprawled on top of a cool duvet looking up at Regis looming over him like a cat ready to pounce. 

"I have so many things I want to do to you that I hardly know where to start," Regis muses, running his hands up and down Geralt's sides, slowly. His thumbs run across Geralt's nipples, each one pierced with a small silver dumbbell, and when he sees the way that makes Geralt shift beneath him, he follows it up with a gentle kiss to each. "Any suggestions?"

"Fuck me," Geralt breathes.

Regis' breath ghosting across his freshly-kissed piercing in a laugh makes Geralt's nipple hard and his cock harder. "I needed suggestions for where to  _ start, _ not where to finish," he murmurs. "What do you think? What do you need?"

"Some lube. To open myself up. So you can fuck me."

"How about some  _ patience,"  _ Regis grouses, but he does pull back and reach for the drawer of his nightstand. "Lay against the pillows, darling." Geralt does as he's asked, because he knows better to argue with his best shot at getting laid for the first time in literal years. He frowns, however, when Regis shows no sign of intending to relinquish his hold on the bottle of lube. "Oh no, I'm not letting you have all the fun, Geralt. I intend to acquaint myself with every blessed inch of you, inside and out."

"Before or after I die of old age?" he retorts to deflect from the way that the words made his cock twitch.

"Are you always this dramatic?" Regis asks archly, raising a single eyebrow at him.

"Only when I'm being cruelly denied."

Regis doesn't deny him for long. He lays down next to Geralt and works his hand between Geralt's thighs, which tremble a little with anticipation as Regis' lube-slicked fingers make contact with his hole. He can't help the way that he tenses immediately, too long unused to the sensation. Regis only kisses him and continues the touch, gently rubbing his fingertips over Geralt's hole until eventually he relaxes under it.

The hype, as it turns out, was worth it. The skill of Regis' hands was undersold by neither the man himself nor Geralt's fantasies of them. Those long fingers are perfect for pressing inside of him and stretching him open, stretching and curling in ways that make him shiver. Obviously he knows exactly where Geralt's prostate is, judging by the way that he keeps dancing around it with any kind of meaningful pressure. Geralt hadn't thought of Regis as being particularly cruel, but if this keeps up, he might have to reconsider. 

He's considering whether or not he ought to be complaining when Regis finally presses in exactly where his touch is most wanted, and his half-formed protest gets yanked off of his lips and replaced with a moan. Regis gives an answering, quieter moan in response and presses his face into the curve of Geralt's throat, as if he's drinking in those sounds of pleasure. "I just knew you'd sound sweet singing for me," he purrs.

Geralt doesn't answer, because he's busy keeping his brain cells firing the way that they're supposed to. He's never been so thoroughly fucked by three fingers alone. Maybe it's the sharp, precise thrusts, or the impeccable aim, but he finds himself rocking desperately into every action to meet it with a little extra force of his own. He's hard-pressed to remember a time when a cock felt as good inside of him as these fingers do now.

Of course, he's also hard-pressed to remember what his name is right now, so maybe he's not a good source of information either way.

"Feels good," he pants out after a minute or two of writhing on Regis' fingers and kissing him whenever his mouth is in range. "Could come from just this."

"Been a while since I was thirty," Regis hums against his jawline. "How's your recovery time? This is far from the end of the list of things I've been dying to do to you."

There's no mistaking what exactly he's asking, and that makes Geralt shiver in anticipation. "I could come twice tonight, if you're willing to give me some hard work and patience."

Regis lifts his head enough to meet Geralt's eyes with his own hungry gaze. "There are a great many things I'd be willing to do in the name of making you feel good, darling."

Geralt plants his feet on the mattress and tries to push up in order to get some leverage. It's good,  _ so _ fucking good, and while he hadn't exactly  _ planned _ on coming from just a little fingering today, he's more than willing to roll with the punches. He takes his cock in hand and starts to stroke it, loose enough to be a tease, but tight enough to kick him another notch higher. He's not even chasing the orgasm, not really, he's just letting himself feel all of the sensations that this moment has to offer and waiting for it to crash over him.

Except that his moment is being interrupted by a jaunty little melody coming from some far off part of the apartment, and Geralt freezes. So does Regis, his fingers still tucked inside of him and hovering threateningly against his prostate. "Is that your phone?" he asks after a moment, frowning down at Geralt.

If there is a god, Geralt would like him or her to know that they can go fuck themselves. "Yes," he answers miserably, releasing his grip on his cock and pushing gently at Regis' wrist until his fingers are withdrawn, too. "Fuck. Sorry, I should check it. Something might have happened to Ciri, or--"

"It's alright, I understand. Go check," Regis tells him kindly, pressing a swift kiss to his shoulder. 

Geralt feels overexposed as he rolls out of the bed and makes his way, naked as the day he was born, to where his jeans were abandoned on the living room floor. His phone is tucked in the pocket, still playing its merry tune, and his heart sinks as he realizes what the source of the clamor is.

He appears in the doorway to Regis' bedroom a moment later, leaning against the door frame and drinking in the tragically short-lived sight before him. Regis looks good stretched out like this, laying back on the bed like Geralt had been a moment before. His build is so much thinner than Geralt's own, with a little softness around his belly, but still fit and healthy. His cock is hard, and Geralt feels an instant rush of regret for not having paid it any attention yet. He'd planned to share the love plenty, but as his phone has informed him, destiny has other plans for him.

"What's the matter? Come here," Regis says, beckoning Geralt in. He goes, though a little reluctantly-- not because he doesn't want to go back to bed, but because he knows that he can't stay and to return for only a minute more is just torture. Still he goes, and sits on the bed next to Regis with a heavy sigh. "Is everything alright? Who was calling?"

"No one, it was my alarm," Geralt sighs. "I didn't realize how late it was. I need to leave now if I'm going to get to Lambert's to pick up Ciri on time. Fuck, way to kill a moment."

"It's alright," Regis tells him at once, sitting up and cupping Geralt's face in one hand. "Hey. Really, it's alright. Interruptions happen. You know I'm a patient man, I can wait a little longer to finish what we've started."

"But I don't  _ want _ to wait." Geralt is well aware that he's borderline pouting, but it's fucking  _ frustrating _ to get this close and then be denied. "We were on such a good track. I was enjoying that train ride, Regis, I don't want it to be derailed."

"Not derailed, just delayed," promises Regis, leaning in to kiss Geralt's cheek. "Think of it as building suspense. An introduction to the main event, to be continued the next time."

Geralt feels an ache in his cock at the mere thought. "Yeah? And what's the main event?"

Regis leans in close, cheek to cheek, so that his breath fans across the skin of Geralt's throat as he whispers in his ear, "The main event is when I finally find out what it feels like when you come on my cock."

"Fuck," Geralt chokes out, turning his head to seek out Regis' kiss like oxygen. He pushes Regis back with the force of it and keeps pushing, until Regis is flat on his back once more and Geralt can straddle him. "You're patient, I'm not," he says by way of explanation, grabbing his phone off of the mattress beside them and unlocking it with shaking hands. A second later and the line is ringing, which Geralt only half pays attention to as he leans over and yanks open a bedside drawer. Pack of tissues, an eye mask, a mostly empty bottle of warming lube --noted for later discussion-- and there, towards the back, a box of condoms.

Lambert answers the phone just as Geralt finishes ripping the little foil packet open with his teeth. "Hey Gerry, what's crackin'?"

"Listen, I need a favor," Geralt says quickly, fumbling to get the condom lined up properly so that he can roll it down Regis' length one-handed. Thankfully Regis seems to be on board with his unspoken plan, and brushes Geralt's hand aside to do it himself. "Can Ciri stay the night with you?"

"I thought she had school tomorrow?"

"It's half-day Kindergarten, the world won't end if she misses a day." God he's a terrible parent. Good thing he's too horny to care right now.

"And what if I had plans tonight, huh?"

"Do you?"

"No. But I could have!"

"Please, Lambert, I'll pay you double," Geralt pleads. He's not above begging in the name of getting Regis' cock inside of him, even if that begging has to weirdly be to Lambert instead of Regis.

"You're only paying me in leftover pizza."

"Tell him I'll pay him whatever he wants," Regis chimes in quietly, licking his lips as he looks up at Geralt.

Apparently he wasn't quite quiet enough, because Lambert suddenly gasps dramatically. "Holy shit! Is that the doctor? Are you with Reggie right now?"

"It's Regis," Geralt huffs, "and mind your fuckin' business. Can she stay with you or not?"

Lambert sounds so insufferably smug that Geralt wants to reach through the phone and smack the smirk right off his face. Lucky for Lambert, that's physically impossible and also Geralt needs him. "Alright, bro, I've got her, but you owe me one. Go get you some daddy dick." Geralt has just enough time to hear Lambert's hollered  _ hey hellion, wanna have a sleepover?  _ and Ciri's answering battle cry before the line disconnects.

Fucking finally. Geralt has work to do.

He takes hold of Regis' cock and holds it steady as he presses downward onto it, feeling himself stretching around the intrusion despite Regis' careful ministrations earlier. He wants to revel in the sensation, something he hasn't felt in far too long, but it's hard to focus on his own pleasure alone when he also wants to commit Regis' face to memory. He has this look on his face that is the most singularly unkempt that Geralt has ever seen him, with his mouth agape and his eyes half-lidded and a flush high on his cheeks. He looks like he's having some sort of religious experience, and fuck if Geralt can't relate.

It takes a few rises and falls for Geralt to find his rhythm, the motion a little stilted at first from his several years of tragic celibacy. He finds the groove soon enough, however, and from there it's a simple thing to just keep going and refuse to stop. It's not a hard sell, when every motion sends a little tingle out from his core right down to the tips of his fingers and toes. More than just the physical sensations, it's also a sense of deep-seated satisfaction and rightness. This is good. This is where he's meant to be.

Regis' hands are skimming up his sides and then across every part of him, never pausing for more than a moment, still drinking him in. When he thumbs at Geralt's nipple piercings, Geralt gives a groan, long and low. When he reaches behind Geralt and pulls his cheeks apart, fingering at the Geralt's rim stretched wide around himself, Geralt chokes on a dry sob.

Suddenly a strong hand is in Geralt's hair, holding him firmly and tugging him roughly down into a kiss. With Regis still laying on his back, it's an awkward angle, and Geralt's at least somewhat graceful riding of Regis' cock is reduced to a frantic sort of rutting against his belly. It still feels far fucking better than anything has a right to. "Did-- do something,  _ fuck, _ wrong?" he asks, trying to catch his breath enough to make the words actually intelligible and only partly succeeding. 

"You did everything just right," Regis assures him with a wicked lift to the corner of his mouth, "but it's my turn to call the shots now."

Geralt doesn't know what exactly that means, but he can tell by the slightly unhinged tone of Regis' voice and the reverent blaze of his hand up Geralt's spine tell him that it's going to work out well for him. He goes with the flow, allowing Regis to guide him to lift up off of his cock --reluctantly-- and nudge him sideways until he's on his back looking up at Regis. He's a little worried for a moment that Regis might attempt to torture him some more, slow things down, make him wait again to be filled now that Geralt has gotten enough of a taste to be addicted. 

But his fears are short lived, because no sooner is Geralt settled on the duvet than Regis is sliding his cock right back inside of Geralt, swallowing down his little grunt of momentary discomfort in another kiss. One of Geralt's legs is being pushed up towards his chest, hooked over a shoulder, holding Geralt open. His other leg wraps around behind Regis on instinct, keeping him in place and allowing him to dig his heel into Regis' backside until he pushes deeper, and suddenly they've formed some sort of weird human knot that neither one of them wants to untie.

When Regis fucks him, it's ruthlessly precise. The stimulation is almost too much, and Geralt moans at the sensation even as he tries to writhe away from it on instinct. Regis doesn't let him, using his leverage to keep him where he wants him, and soon Geralt's chest is heaving like he's running a marathon. He can feel his hair getting frizzy with the damp of sweat and the friction of his head tossing and turning on the pillow. 

His hands scrabble for purchase on Regis' body, and he finds a forearm where one hand is planted on the mattress beside his head, and a knee somewhere further down the mattress that Geralt can barely press his fingertips against. He swears he can feel it pop a little with each rock of Regis' hips, and the thought suddenly strikes him as so funny that he feels an untimely laugh rise up in his chest. It never quite makes it out of his mouth, though, turning to a keening sound as one or both of them shifts just enough to change the angle and the pressure building inside of Geralt gets infinitesimally better.

"Gonna come," Geralt warns, and Regis is kind enough to help him push over the edge by reaching down between then and taking hold of his cock, stroking it with the slick dribble of precum running down from the tip until he finally releases, back arching up off the bed to push into the sensation as a loud groan that may or may not contain Regis' name escapes his lips. It feels like his whole body is shuddering with every pulse of his cock, until he's empty and Regis' continued pushes in and out of him start teetering on the edge of overstimulation.

"Alright?" Regis asks in his ear, voice breathy and a little desperate.

"Not until you come inside of me," challenges Geralt. "Go on, Regis, take what you need."

His hands are everywhere, holding onto Geralt as he speeds up his hips to chase his own pleasure. Geralt can feel the way that his breath comes ragged and uneven against the skin of Geralt's throat, right up until that sensation gets lost underneath the feeling of teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder, hard. Regis doesn't relent, holding Geralt with his teeth like some kind of feral thing as his hips stutter and his cock flexes within Geralt. 

He only lets up with the fearsome bite when he finally stills his hips, and then it's only so that he can move to kiss Geralt again. What's that been, a million kisses tonight? Two? It isn't enough. Regis is pulling out of him gently, and Geralt makes a mental note to bring up a conversation about testing and exclusivity sometime soon. He doesn't want anyone but Regis, and that includes the feeling of Regis' cum leaking out of him after a good fuck like that. He deserves to feel claimed, even if that's an instinct that doesn't really make sense. 

When Regis sits back on his haunches, Geralt's legs spread obscenely on either side of him, they take a second just to stare at one another, chests heaving, bodies still quaking a bit in the suddenly too-cool air of the bedroom. Geralt lets one hand come to rest on his stomach, fingertips playing in the mess there, and watches Regis' eyes get drawn to the place and stick there like magnets.

"Worth the wait?" Regis asks after a beat, one hand working the condom off of his softening cock and the other trailing gently up the inside of Geralt's thigh.

He knows what Regis means. He isn't  _ that _ much of an idiot. Even still, he can't help but turn the question around. "You tell me. You're the one who's been coming around my shop for over a year to buy bagels every week, just as an excuse to wait around for me to pull my head out of my ass and say yes to you. Was that worth the wait?"

Regis laughs, bending down to press a kiss to one of Geralt's knees. "If I told you the bagels were really just that good, would you believe me?"

"No. Answer the question."

"Then yes," Regis tells him, pressing another gentle kiss a little higher up the inside of his thigh, and then another even higher, and another still. "Worth every minute."

..................... 

He knows when it's Ciri opening the door to Kaer Morsels because the little bell above the door rings so hard that it almost breaks with the force with which she throws it open. He always knows when it's Ciri.

"Dad!" she yells excitedly, bouncing like a kangaroo as she makes her way over to the counter. She's wearing her new teal bedazzled leotard under her gym shorts and zip up jacket, and Geralt is glad to see that it still has some room to grow in. He'd had to trash the purple one last week, despite the fact that it was still practically brand new. She's been shooting up like a weed recently, and just about everything in her wardrobe has been straining to contain her lanky eight year old frame.

"Hey, kid," Geralt says, leaning across the counter a bit so that she can wrap her arms around his neck in a hug. "How was gymnastics?"

"It was great! I finally managed to do a cartwheel over the block like I've been trying to do for weeks, and coach said it was fantastic!"

"I concur with the coach," says a warm voice from the doorway, and Geralt is smiling before he even looks up.

It's Regis, looking as handsome as ever, with Ciri's gym bag slung over his shoulder and his tie loosened like he's trying to invite Geralt to reach out and tug it the rest of the way off. He's always walking around looking like temptation itself, and Geralt lives for it. "Is that so?" he asks Regis with a grin. "Who knew you were such an authority on gymnastics."

"He's not," Ciri chimes in matter-of factly. "And also he's biased. Papa can't give good opinions on my skills because he's my dad and that means he automatically thinks everything I do is great."

Regis looks at her and puts his hand to his chest as if affronted. "I can't help it that you do everything to such a degree of excellence. Let's find you an after school activity that you're terrible at, and I promise to tell you every day how wretched you are."

"No you won't," snorts Geralt.

"No, I won't," Regis agrees. "Not that you're any better."

"Yeah, well, that's my prerogative. You gonna kiss me or what?"

And Regis does, because he never says no to Geralt's requests for kisses, not even when Ciri is off to the side making gagging noises that sound frighteningly authentic. Exactly one percent of his brain is wondering which of her terrible uncles taught her that skill. Probably Jaskier, the dramatic bastard. The other ninety nine percent is thinking about how unbelievably lucky he is to be living in this little pocket of heaven right here on earth.

When they pull apart, Regis reaches out to snag Geralt's left hand and bring it to his lips, pressing a kiss overtop of the simple silver wedding band there, the way he has done every day since he slipped it onto Geralt's finger a year ago. "Ready to come home with us?" he asks, as if it doesn't mean the world. As if he even has to ask.

"Can't wait."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that hurt your feelings because it sure hurt mine
> 
> stfustucky | tumblr  
> @stfustucky | twitter  
> Charlie Stfustucky#3055 | discord


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